


The eyes that wander

by Hakyeonsmelanin



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, Emotional Abuse, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Smut, F/M, I’m not a thief omg, Manipulation, Mental Instability, Musical References, Older Man/Younger Woman, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, The plot is kinda based off of a manga I read, reader is such a DICK, rough smut, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-05 20:06:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21214316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hakyeonsmelanin/pseuds/Hakyeonsmelanin
Summary: A hole in the wall seals his fate.





	1. Prologue: Death is the beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur, through a failed suicide attempt, finds a reason to live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning- this fic references depression, suicide and a whole lot of dark shit. If you feel uncomfortable at all then please don’t read!! Make sure to take care of yourselves guys and remember that you’re loved and special :D
> 
> Also this fic is sort of based off the plot of a manga I read a while ago where a guy tries to commit suicide by hanging himself from a peg on the wall but ends up creating a hole. He sees the girl who lives next door through it and becomes obsessed with her. Creepy or what? I’m still gonna interlink the plot of the joker movie and this is still going to document arthur’s transition into the ultimate bad bitch.
> 
> ALSO IM CURRENTLY REALLY SICK AND I WROTE THIS AN HOUR AFTER COLLAPSING PLS DONT HATE ME IF ITS BAD

He’s ready to go.

The belt is cool against his flesh, pressing up against his windpipe in an obscenely satisfying way. The pressure offers a decadent torture, sweet and sickly and he wants nothing more than to lurch forward and claim it for himself. This is his moment. The stage is set. It’s his time to shine.

It’s comically tragic. After years of practising in bathroom mirrors, staying up until the darkest hours of night to write his material, slaving his ass off as fucking _party clown_— his final joke is the funniest one he’ll ever tell. Thin lips stretch far and wide, eyes crinkling with an unspoken mirth.

”Ladies and Gentleman...” he booms animatedly, hands waving as though command the attention of his indivisible audience.

”I present to you, _ The Killing Joke!_“

He jumps.

Arthur laughs as the air rushes out of him, throat constricting and squeezing and tearing and_fuck fuck fuck it hurts so bad—_

His eyelids bleed, a myriad of regrets and pains and bouts of laughter that he’s swallowed down for decades. Like molten lava, spewing from the belly of a volcano, his misery erupts to the surface. It scorches all in its path, bubbling and boiling and bursting until there’s not a single remnants of life left. He cackles as the life drains from him, as his vision fizzles out into darkness and death’s cold, bony hands reach out to him.

The belt snaps.

He falls.

The ground hits him hard, knocking the air back into his lungs. Bits of drywall explode, plumes of dust float into the air and the most jagged pieces of plaster find home in the crevices of his eyeballs. They poke and poke and poke and he wonders if he’ll ever be able to see again. He lies, defeated, and curls up into a ball. 

  
He sobs.  


  
**I can’t even kill myself right.**

  
He lies there for an eternity, waiting to die. He wants the ground to swallow him up, for his flesh to rot and bloat and burst. For the maggots and flies to flay his carcass until he’s nothing more than a filthy pile of bones. He wants those bones to melt away into nothingness, until not a single trace of his existence is left. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Arthur Fleck is nothing.  


Because he understands. He understands that there’s a distinct difference between existing and living. He’s existed his whole life, lingered in the air like a bad smell there’s no getting rid of. Arthur Fleck is the type of smell that makes your eyes water, lips curl in disgust and vomit churn within the depths of your stomach. He’s repulsive, he’s putrid and he just won’t go away.

It would be nice to go away, he thinks. 

It’s the sound of humming, that pulls him out of his thoughts. A rich, saccharine soprano that the air carries over to his ears and, for a moment, he swears it breathes the life back into him.

He jerks upwards and scrambles across the floor, peeking through the hole in the wall. White walls, minimalistic decor and a young girl is what he sees.

The girl has music in her soul. She sways to a rhythm that exists solely in her mind, moving with such a fluidity it’s as though she’s flying. He watches with wide, attentive eyes. He wants nothing more than to be as free as her.

She’s radiant, yet completely dull. A perverse mixture of shame and jealously fills him. How is it, that she can dance at a time like this? How mindless, how oblivious, how stupid—

He considers the softness of her curves, the spring in her steps, the sweetness in her voice and feels laughter bubble up in his throat. Compared to her, he is a malignant tumour that bulges from the surface of the Earth. He is what’s wrong with the world. 

And somehow, when he looks at her, he doesn’t want to die as much as before.

A memory from his childhood arises from the recesses of his mind. Going to church on a stormy Sunday afternoon. The congregation packed close and tight, like those tinned sardines he’d have to chew on when Mother was too sick to cook. Stained glass and tragic sacrifices sprawled over the walls— The Lord’s brows furrowed, mouth agape in agony. It’s all a bad joke, he thinks at the time. 

If God can feel pain, then what separates Him from His creation?

You dance around, a beautiful disaster, and Arthur wonders if you’ve ever felt the slightest semblance of pain. He waits, and watches, until your legs grow tired and you flop down onto your bed.

Arthur has never been a religious man but, looking at you, he knows he has found God.


	2. First glance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur comes closer to his Goddess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> F minor symbolises depression, a deep sadness and longing for the grave.

“What’s up with you?”

He flinches, and cranes his neck upward. Randall hovers above him, brows raised and mouth pressed into a flat line.

”...Nothing.” Arthur turns, picking up his paintbrush. He resumes his beauty regime. First the white, then the blue and finally: a bold, blood red smile.

”Y’sure? You seem pretty chirpy.”

Applying the white is always so liberating. Its the start of a new beginning, a mask to hide a myriad of imperfections and somehow, it beckons his true self to the surface.

**hAppYBOyMaKEThEWOrlDSMilEhAppYBOyMaKEThEWOrlDSMilEhAppYBOyMaKEThEWOrlDSMilEhAppYBOyMaKEThEWOrlDSMilE**

“Chirpy?”

”You’re humming.” Randall looks perturbed, blinking uncomfortably as though he can’t fathom the idea that Carnival the clown could ever be happy. 

“I’ll stop.”

Randall nods, having completed his mission successfully, before pausing. Arthur notes his hesitancy. A life spent in the shadows has provided him with an invaluable skill: the ability to read people. With eyes that wander, eyes that have the gift of crystal clear vision, he sees the world, and it’s people, for what they really are. The misery in a man’s slouched shoulders, the joy in a child’s jaunty footsteps, the shame in a woman’s fidgeting fingers.—he sees it all (even when they think he doesn’t).

“Yeah, so, me and the boys are gonna go to Archie’s after work. Have a couple drinks. You wanna come?” Arthur stomachs the laughter collecting in his stomach. Randall looks physically pained at having to ask him, at having to engage with him for more than a minute. He wonders what it is about himself that’s so goddamn off-putting.

”Arthur?”

A week ago, he would’ve jumped at the chance to leave the house. To talk to someone other than his Mother.

Instead, he thinks of a little hole in the wall, a pretty face and lilting vocals.

”Sorry, I’ve got plans.”

~

It’s on a cold, winter night that Arthur realises he’s in love.

You’re singing again, fingers tapping against the wood of your work desk. There’s papers sprawled across it, an essay that’s due for tomorrow that you’ve forgotten about and a luscious falsetto filling the air.

“Happy?” His mother calls out from the living room. He recoils, shrinks in on himself at the noise.

His mother’s voice contains an unsettling, childlike quality. He hears how lost she is in the highness of her pitch, her delusion in the resonance of her tone and the name _Thomas Wayne_ just begging to spill from her mouth.

He creeps out into the hallway, careful not to make any noise.

”Yes, Mother?”

Arthur swears, silently, that his world darkens when he can’t see you in it.

~

Kids can be so cruel.

Arthur limps over to the elevator, head throbbing with a ruthless intensity. His eyes water, his throat seizes up with laughter and for a moment, he thinks he’s going to die.

He steps inside. The numbers on the button are fading, rust lining edges that protrude. They’re probably three presses away from popping out. He pushes down and awaits his ascension.

Ignoring the sting in his stomach, bile lurching violently again, he decides to occupy his mind with mundanities. What should he feed Mother tonight? There’s some rice left over from Tuesday’s dinner. Or maybe some pas-

”Wait!”

He’s pulled out of his thoughts, a sweet voice ringing through the walls of the elevator and as if it were possessed, his foot instantly lodges in between the doors.

You smile and slip past him. He can’t breathe.

You’re even more gorgeous up close, like those infamous Hollywood starlets that suffer the most unfortunate of fates. Your skin looks so soft, so supple, but under the right pressure it could break so easily. He lowers his eyes, hangs his head low and pretends you’re not there.

The elevator lets out a loud, hoarse wail before freezing. He looks up, and around. Fuck, this can’t be happening. The walls enclose, then enclose again. The air in his lungs seems to dissipate. He’s trapped, he can’t get out, he’s fucking stuck. He’s stuck here with you.

“Hey,” your palm is extended towards him, a tissue resting in between your fingertips. “Your nose is bleeding.”

He stares at it, eyes bulging from their sockets and completely paralysed. Your voice contains a startling clarity when you speak to him. It leaves him weak at the knees, utterly unsure of what to do.

Arthur realises his disorientation must be written across his face because, within a matter of seconds, you’ve inched closer to him and pushed the tissue into his hand. Cool skin brushes against his own and he swears he feel an electric current surge into his fingertips.

He recoils as though you have burned him.

The tissue is scrunched up into a painfully tight fist and he jerks backwards in the metal panel behind him. Quirking a brow at his nervous display, you go back to inspecting the polish on your nails, a vivid, sensual red.

The elevator hurls upwards, deciding it has rested long enough, and he presses the tissue to his nose. The crimson gushes onto the paper, a queasy excitement pervading his senses.

He has been touched by God.

A _ding!_ sounds through the air and you make your way out without so much as a glance in his direction. Arthur follows behind, clutching the bloodied tissue in his hand.

He clears his throat uncomfortably, lingering outside of his door. The key is in the hole but he can’t find it in himself to twist it. This feels wrong. It feels incomplete. Then, he understands why.

What kind of an acolyte would he be, if he didn’t thank his God for the mercy bestowed upon him?

“Thank you.”

Your eyes snap back to him and, automatically, a dimpled smile tugs at the corners of your mouth.

“It’s nothing.” The door slams shut and under the flicker of the hallway lights, he stands alone.

~

F minor.

He spoke in F minor.

That man (Fleck—or was it Flick?) has sunken, dark eyes that wander a little too far for your liking. They dart around uncomfortably, absorbing everything around him like a sopping, soaking dish sponge that needs to be thrown away. His eyes are ugly and unconfident, and but his voice is undeniably beautiful.

It’s airy, like he’s constantly, continuously, struggling for breath, but his pitch rings pleasantly. It’s sonorous, ceaselessly deep and completely defeated. He said nothing and disgusted you. He spoke and enthralled you.

You regard him with a quiet pity before closing the door on him. It’s only a few moments later that you hear his own door shut.

He’s strange, but you don’t think about it any further, opting to make a cup of herbal tea and revise your sheet music.

Arthur Fleck is tragically forgettable.

Once he’s out of sight, he’s out of mind.


	3. Insight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cracks in the wall begin to show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> E major symbolises true joy.
> 
> F# minor symbolises resentment 
> 
> Also,,, bruh the reader is such a donkey someone lock this evil bitch up

He wonders what makes you laugh.

You’re a delicate thing, dainty and sweet sounding. Crude humour, the type of jokes that are built on perverseness and shock-factor, definitely wouldn’t be your thing (or at least, he hopes).

Maybe you’re into wordplay, humour that requires a little thought. Arthur, himself, possesses his profound love for comedy because it can be presented in so many different ways. He loves a good pun, can always appreciate a mean societal commentary coated in sly laughter and joviality. You’re a smart girl, observant and politically aware, and for that reason he resolves to make his material as thought-provoking as possible. 

Wait.

He’s so stupid. If there’s anything that could get a good laugh out of you, it’s an act based on music. It’s what you live for, it lives deep inside you—down to every last cell in your body and the marrow in your bones. You live, breathe and bleed music. It makes him love you all the more. Sometimes, if you’re stood in the right position, turned at the perfect angle, he can catch your fingers twitching methodically as though playing a grand piano.

He giggles a little to himself, dotting the eyes on the smiley face he’s drawn across the page. It’s clumsy and disproportionate but it’s what’s written underneath that makes him feel giddy:

_How do you fix a broken brass instrument?_

_With a **tuba** glue_

He hears footsteps. They’re distant and somehow, feel as though they’re sounding right next to him.

Pressing the cover shut, he stashes it under his mattress and scrambles over to the wall, ready for his nightly viewing.

~

“No.”

You blink.

”What do you mean, _ no_?”

He huffs, running a hand through his hair. He’s visibly stressed, the vein on his forehead quivering at each intake of breath.

”I mean _no_. Look kid,” he begins and you already know what he’s going to say.

It’s always the same insincere bullshit repeated over and over again. These corporate bastards are known for coating their words in sweet, decadent sugar, throwing in compliments that lack all sincerity and stretching their lips into stiff, ugly smiles. You feel like spitting in his face for lying so brazenly.

Snatching the tape back, you force it into your bag. Some record producer, he is. If he can’t appreciate it, you’ll find someone else who will. 

“It’s a solid demo, you’ve—you’ve got talent and a great voice!”

”But?”

Cocking a brow, you wait for his criticism, even if it’s utterly unwarranted. _What an dumbass_, you sneer internally. He wouldn’t know good music if it pummelled him across the face with a brick.

”...But it’s outdated. It’s too jazzy, no one wants to hear that anymore.” He rolls his eyes. “Haven’t you been listening to the radio? It’s all about rock n’ roll now—that’s what sells.” 

A sharp, resonant ringing plays in your ears. He stares at you, with an apprehensive furrow of the brows. God, he’s just itching to call security.

”That’s what sells, huh?” You parrot, a tight smile pulling at the corners of your mouth.

The rejection weighs heavily on your chest, it dulls the character in your voice. Molten fury reels violently in the pit of your stomach and it takes every last bit of self restraint to stop it from erupting.

“Alright.” You resign in a quiet F major.

You walk home in silence, for the first time in a long time. There’s no music playing in the back of your mind, no hidden rhythm that’s waiting for release. Raw, real silence is the only thing you can hear and it _ hurts_.

Checking the post on the way up to your apartment, you notice Fleck loitering around. He looks gaunt, almost skeletal, under the sporadic flicker of the hallway lights. His mouth opens and closes, stiflingly hesitant. He wants to speak.

And you want to hear his voice.

For a moment, you long to hear his melancholy rasp. He’s the only creature in existence that could be more pitiful than you.

~

”Hm.” She places his joke-book down and begins to scribble in her notepad.

”What is it?”

She glances up at him, the cold and clinical bitch she is, and shrugs.

”You’ve got an awful lot of jokes dedicated to this...Y/N...person.” Her tone is deliberately slow, although inadvertently patronising.

  
”Have I?”  


  
”Yes, Arthur, you have,” she looks concerned and he decides to stick his cigarette into his mouth. He doesn’t like that look. Not. One. Bit.

”Who is she, if you don’t mind me asking?” Dr Meredith leans forward, brows raised in an attempt at feigning interest. It’s a convincing act but her eyes betray her. They’re utterly dead. Arthur cranes his neck up, a puff of hot smoke floating from his mouth, and he answers.  


”She’s my girlfriend.”

~

Hands wrapped around his mouth, he smothers the sound of his laughter. It collects in his stomach and creeps up into his throat, like some sinister, unnatural demonic possession. The demon claws its way up, seizing control of his entire body—every limb, every last fingertip and toe and muscle and ligament and cell and— _fuck!_It hurts so bad and all he can do is squeeze tighter.

Quiet. Quiet. Quiet. Stay fucking quiet.

”Happy?” His mother calls out. Shit, she’s still in the tub. How long has it been? He can’t have taken more than five minutes.

His eyes strain over to the hole in the wall and he prays that you just _go_. This crevice, humble in its size, is the gateway to heaven, full of light and joy and music. It’s so easy to forget the misery that exists inside of him when he has something real, something tangible, to look forward to. Even if it is just a pretty girl singing alone.

He likes to think you’d understand why he watches you.

His muscles relax and his posture sinks, just slightly. Yes, of course you’d understand. God, above all things, is benevolent. Pain isn’t completely unfathomable to the being who birthed the feeling from their fingertips.

Still, he lies against the wall. Careful. Quiet.

”Happ—“ A thud sounds, followed by muffled, hoarse sobbing. Panic spikes through the clown, once more. Did she try to get out of the tub by herself? Fuck, he’s so stupid, so easily distracted. 

**You should’ve just taken the towel. You should’ve just taken the towel and gone. Now she’s on the floor. The floor. Cold. Hard. Floor. It hurts down there. It hurts—**

You inspect the cracks for an eternity, lashes peering through thoughtfully, before murmuring about how shitty the building is. He waits for you to walk away and forget the hole exists.

The soft clicking of your door signals your leave. Hands flying from his jaw, explosive laughter resonates from deep within his chest. Penny cries violently, an entire universe away, and it’s only until she’s silent that he’s able to stop and finally check on her.

~

Rich boys are so easily controlled. A bat of the lashes, a sway of the hips and they’re practically putty in your palms. Pathetically predictable, but malleable. Tonight, he belongs to you. 

He moans your name in an ugly, discordant tone and you have to stifle a laugh because _hell,_ you can’t even remember his. Whispering sweet nothings into the shell of your ear, rich boy tells you that he could stay buried inside of you forever and that he has enough money to make it happen. That he loves the feeling of your hot, pussy clamped around him and he’ll fuck you like this every night if you let him. You pretend not to hear, immersing yourself in the friction between your bodies instead. 

He climaxes in E major, true, primal joy reverberating deep inside him. There’s a strange empowerment that comes with bringing someone to such a vulnerable state, one that elevates your status into something beyond what you actually are. Something powerful, something untouchable.

A God. In this moment, you are a God.

”Who’s the only one that can make you feel this good? Who has that power?”

“_You..._“ He whines out and you give him a smoky, lazy smirk. His adams apple bobs as he sucks in his breath, his skin is shiny with sweat and utterly delectable. Your fingers move of their own accord.

Still chasing your own orgasm, you roll your hips furiously. Hands viciously gripping the column of his throat, you fuck yourself in a painfully fast rhythm. His pulse beats viciously, heart vibrating with a wanton gusto like the beating of a drum.

You squeeze tighter.

He writhes with wide eyes, brimful of fear and stripped of any arousal. With both hands wrapped tightly around his windpipe, you crush down harder. He chokes, tongue flailing about like some wild, uncontrollable animal and that beloved, long-awaited rush of heat lets loose within your nether regions.

”_Sto—get...off..._” his hands beat at your sides.

Harder. Harder. Harder. Fuck, you don’t want to stop until you’ve snapped his neck into two, until his head flops limply to the side and rips clean off of his neck—

”_...G-Get off!_” He shoves you off with an unexpectedly brutal force. You crash to the floor and he curls up, gasping for breath.

”Fuckin’ psycho bitch!” He kicks you once, twice but not a third time. Jerking his clothes back on, he races out of your apartment.

There’s cum dripping down your legs, iron seeping from your tongue and you’re just so utterly exhausted. The bedroom floor offers a crude comfort but you embrace it wholeheartedly.

Head lolling back, your vision brightens and pieces itself back together. Fragments of darkness merge with rays of light and amongst it all, there’s a wide, gaping hole.

You stare at it, a lazy, bitter smile on your lips, and swear that it stares right back at you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> E major symbolises true joy.
> 
> F# minor symbolises resentment 
> 
> Also,,, bruh the reader is such a donkey someone lock this evil bitch up


End file.
